The Coming of John, with Apologies to W. E. B. Du Bois and Amus Mor

“John,” she said, “does it make every one—unhappy when theystudy and learn lots of things?”He paused and smiled. “I am afraid it does,” he said.“And, John, are you glad you studied?”“Yes,” came the answer, slowly but positively

— W. E. B. Du Bois, Souls of Black Folk

I first saw Coltrane live at Birdland in New York City, during the summer of 1959. I was working as a potwasher/waiter at Camp Sea Breeze, located on the south coast of Staten Island. This camp for unwed mothers and children up to the age of twelve was run by the Community Service Society, under the directorship of the head of the School of Social Work at Howard University. My older sister was a counselor and I got my job in the kitchen. Due to an early socialization by my older cousins in Chicago, I had known of Coltrane through some of his work with Gene Ammons and Johnny Griffin, both hard-bop tenors from Chicago, and of his current role in the Miles Davis Quintet.

After growing up in Washington, D.C., upon arriving in New York I soon learned that New Yorkers thought D.C. was socially and culturally part of the Deep South. I was warned not to go to Manhattan, where I’d face the possibility of becoming hopelessly lost, or being attacked and robbed by street gangs who would recognize me by dress and speech as easy prey. What rescued my social status was my love of jazz, and my awareness of the importance of John Coltrane. One of the older (i.e., early twenties) Black camp counselors had a copy of Monk’s Music which, in addition to the striking cover photo of Thelonious Monk sitting in a child’s red wagon, featured John Coltrane and Coleman Hawkins on tenor saxophones. This is the session where Monk cuts short his opening solo on “Well You Needn’t,” catching Coltrane off guard and necessitating Monk’s famous shout of “Coltrane, Coltrane.” After a brief hesitation, Coltrane comes roaring in. Sitting on the bunk beds or floor of our dorm room we holler and slap five with each other, playing that short segment over and over so we can join Monk in calling forth the best tenor sax player on the planet. Monk’s voice, Coltrane’s name, Coltrane’s solo. For a jazz-loving teenager it couldn’t get any better than that. But it did.

Wally Whitehead, fellow kitchen worker, and my self-appointed guide through the perils of Manhattan, informed me that Miles Davis was playing a stint at Birdland with Coltrane on tenor, and we had to go. I reminded Wally that I was still seventeen and couldn’t get into a nightclub that served alcohol. Wally looked at me in disgust, then said I guess we’ll have to sit in the “peanut gallery,” which was an area up and back away from the bandstand that was designated “no alcohol.” Wally was annoyed that he couldn’t be cool and sip Scotch. I cared more about the music than the alcohol or appearing “hip” to overly self-important New Yorkers.

It was the standard Miles Davis small-group set: familiar pieces, short, five to seven minutes top, tight ensemble opening and close, solos technically brilliant, but not too far out. Coltrane clearly was constrained by the format and would be cut off by Miles and Cannonball Adderly when Miles thought the time limit for the piece was nearing. On at least two occasions Miles and Cannonball moved in on Coltrane from both sides and began to play the theme over Coltrane’s solo, forcing him to join in the closing. Sharing what we saw as Coltrane’s frustration, we muttered to ourselves, Let him play, let him play, he was just getting started. We went back to Camp Sea Breeze, and put on Monk’s Music.

The next summer, Wally and I went again to the Randall’s Island Jazz Festival. In an amazing stroke...